


No world is far from wherever you are

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Angst, Historical, Historical Inaccuracy, Italy, M/M, Painting, Period-Typical Homophobia, Plague, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 18:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13980486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: Giampaolo is a painter. Searching for a model for his next piece, he comes across Riccardo, and it might be the best or the worst thing that has ever happened to both him and his career.





	No world is far from wherever you are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [behzaintfunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/gifts), [LeapAngstily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/gifts).



> I honestly feel like this is such a vintage fic. I used to write like this in my pre-AO3 era, and it was so good to come back to it.
> 
> The story is set in undisclosed time period, but think 17th century for the references.
> 
> I did my research quite extensively, but there will of course be inaccuracies as I struggled with the theory of art all through college.
> 
> Dedicated to the lovely @behzaintfunny who requested this, and also @LeapAngstily whom I promised another Monto fic ages ago and never got into it.

Giampaolo crosses the bridge and pulls the coat closer to his body. The autumn has been exceptionally chilly this year. The city looks more dull and grey than he’s ever seen it, almost like all beauty has gone from the world. _And it must be in this time that the Duke asks him to paint something so delicate and beautiful._ Giampaolo has painted countless saints and angels, but he knows that the time has to be right, and the model has to be unique, otherwise the painting just doesn’t radiate the warmth and comfort that people look for in such pieces.

But the streets are almost empty now, and Giampaolo doesn’t even hope that he would come across a model that he could use for this commission. He considers just repainting one of his old portraits, but then, the Duke is a big admirer of his art and he would certainly recognize whatever face Giampaolo would use.

He sighs and heads towards the center of the city. And then he sees him. His angel. 

The boy walks out of an inn in one of the crooked streets around the main square, pursued by another man who is apparently the owner of the inn. 

"Off you go, just go!" he is shouting at the boy. "I'll find five better than you! Anyone would kiss my hands!"

"Well, not me!" the boy snaps. 

The inn keeper bangs the door shut. The boy holds his head high and adjusts the scarf around his neck. Giampaolo has to smile. It's practically nothing more than a piece of rather dirty cloth, but the boy is wearing it like it's the finest silk. There is something comically graceful about the way he moves.

He crosses the street and runs up to him just when the boy is about to turn the corner to the worse part of this quarter. “Hey!” he shouts.

The boy turns around with still the same nonchalance and looks at him. “What?”

Giampaolo gulps. The boy’s eyes are impossibly blue. He already knows he’d spend hours mixing colors to get it right, and he would probably never be satisfied with it anyway. “I was just wondering…” he says and steps off the road as a carriage approaches them. “Aren’t you looking for work?”

“Work?” the boy repeats like it’s an insult. “It depends. I’ve had enough of scrubbing floors.”

Giampaolo laughs. “No, I don’t need that.”

“Then what do you want?”

Giampaolo smiles. “What would you say if I wanted to paint you?”

“Paint me?” the boy frowns. “You mean…”

“I’m looking for a model for one of my commissions,” Giampaolo explains. “I’d pay you well. One florin, and one more if the commissioner likes it. I could split it into smaller amounts and pay you after each session.”

“Ah,” the boy finally smiles. “You’re that painter everyone talks about. The one that painted the Pope as Beelzebub.”

“I never did that,” Giampaolo says calmly. He’s already getting tired of this legend. “So. Are you interested?”

“I am,” the boy nods. “Unless you want to paint me as…”

“Beelzebub. I get it. You don’t need to worry,” Giampaolo sighs. “I want to paint you as quite the opposite. You know where I live?”

“I guess,” the boy shrugs. “Someone surely does.”

“Fine. Do you have time tomorrow?” 

He didn’t even plan to start the work so early, but he guesses that the sooner he gets it done, the sooner he will get paid. He might even finish the painting before Easter, which would certainly please the Duke. Also, he can’t risk that his model will find other work.

“I think I’ll have plenty of time not just tomorrow,” the boy says. “Morning, night, when do you painters work?”

“Early afternoon, preferably,” Giampaolo says. “Best light.”

“Great, so I can sleep in,” the boy grins. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Giampaolo nods and watches him turn the corner to the street where the city bakeries are. Giampaolo just shakes his head. In the city full of beggars, this boy is clearly not afraid of becoming one.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Alberto doesn‘t even have to turn around from the table where he is preparing dough. He knows Riccardo‘s steps well enough. “Shouldn‘t you be at Ambrosini‘s inn?” he asks.

“No, because I don‘t work there anymore.”

This finally makes Alberto turn around. “Ambrosini kicked you out?”

“No!” Riccardo snaps like it offends him. “I left myself.”

“Have you gone mad?” Alberto yells. “What are you going to do now? You don‘t even have a bed to sleep in now!”

“So you will share yours with me for once,” Riccardo says like it‘s obvious. “Besides that, I found another work. Better."

Alberto frowns. “You found work the same day you were fired. Better work. In Florence. Let me touch your forehead, you‘re delirious.”

“I‘m not!” Riccardo protests and slaps Alberto‘s hand away. "You know the painter who lives by the river?”

“Pazzini, and?” Alberto shrugs.

Riccardo gives him a bright smile. “Guess who needs to paint an angel, and guess who has the right face for it?”

"Painters are perverts," Alberto says pointedly like it solves everything.

"Not all of them," Riccardo objects.

Alberto sighs. "Why can't you do something else?"

"What? Scrubbing the floors at Ambrosini's inn for one meal a day and a bed in a dirty room? Thank you, from this I at least don't get bloody hands!" Riccardo snaps. "Come on, Gila, who cares if he stares at me all day long, as long as he has a fireplace?" 

Alberto rolls his eyes. _Riccardo and his persuasion that he was born for more than hard work._ He has been like this since they were kids. Riccardo was the prince of the streets, always acting like the others should at least bow to him when he passed them by, and well, Alberto was naturally the bodyguard, saving him from being beaten up by those who by no means wanted to bow to some boy from Caravaggio.

"He touches you once and I'll kill him!" Alberto says resolutely.

“Of course,“ Riccardo grins. “I‘ll tell him that. Now, what is in here that I could eat?“

 

~ ~ ~

 

It isn‘t the first time they share the bed, although they did it fairly more often when they were kids. Back then, they also fitted in one bed way better.

When Alberto falls off the bed in the middle of the night and Riccardo just hugs the pillow with a contented groan, he starts to think that he indeed made a terrible mistake when he was choosing his best friend.

 

~ ~ ~

 

When he hears the knock, Giampaolo opens the door and looks at his model, for the first time in daylight. 

It's ridiculous. None of the noblemen he's met in his life had such fine, delicate face. And there is a boy who spent most of his life working in some dirty inn, with a face no prince would have to be ashamed of.

“I don’t remember if I asked for your name…” he says as he lets him in.

“Riccardo.” The boy is looking around with certain curiosity. It makes Giampaolo almost self-conscious. Suddenly, he wonders if the unfinished paintings scattered around his place are good enough.

“Well, make yourself comfortable, Riccardo,” Giampaolo says and motions to an armchair he had set in the best place for the light to hit. 

Riccardo nods and sneaks past Giampaolo, who is collecting the palettes he didn’t have time to put away. He smells of fresh bread and Giampaolo notes with contentment that he’s washed his hair. That isn’t always the case with his models, especially when they have other work to do before or after the session.

When he finally gets everything ready, he looks at Riccardo again. The warm light is making his features even softer and his hair lighter. He’s assumed a position that is not at all what Giampaolo had in mind when planning the scene, but now he has to reconsider, because… because this, _this_ is the angel waiting at Christ’s empty grave, with the inexplicable knowledge written all over his face. Slightly bored by waiting for the three women, and only a tiny bit smug about the fact that he’s witnessed the Resurrection. 

Giampaolo grabs the charcoal and brings it to the empty canvas. Then he halts. Something is just off, ruining the perfection he‘s looking for. “That strand of hair…” he says, motioning to the side of Riccardo’s face.

Riccardo rolls it around his finger and forms a curl, like he can read Giampaolo’s mind. Or he rather is aware of the charms he possesses. “Better?" he asks.

It’s certainly better for the painting. Not necessarily for Giampaolo, who is getting inexplicably distracted. He finally starts sketching, as it’s the surest way to get inappropriate thoughts out of his head.

It‘s not the first time he‘s using someone he found on the streets as a model, but Riccardo is different. He‘s not twitchy, doesn‘t get bored easily. "Who is it for?" he asks when Giampaolo is about halfway done with the rough outline. "The painting?"

"The Duke."

Riccardo laughs.

"What is it?" Giampaolo asks.

"I just think it's funny. I mean the Duke staring at my face."

Giampaolo laughs. “I guess it is. Then the popes stare at the face of prostitutes as well.“

“You paint the Madonnas after prostitutes?“ 

“Sometimes.“

“Isn‘t that... heresy or something?“

“You mean blasphemy,“ Giampaolo corrects him calmly. "I certainly hope it is not.“

“And what was it with the Pope and Beelzebub?”

“Don’t believe everything people say, boy,” Giampaolo mumbles and puts down the charcoal. He steps back to look at his sketch from a distance. The scene of the cave needs more work, but he can do that later, as he will simply let his fantasy do the work. He decides to focus on the details now.

Riccardo waits it out patiently, albeit a bit upset about not hearing the story he seems to be obsessed with. It’s quite amusing to Giampaolo. _If only he knew._

“Do you want me to pay you now?” Giampaolo asks when he’s done with the sketching.

Riccardo shakes his head. “I’d probably spend the money on something stupid.”

Giampaolo frowns. “I thought you needed it. You could get a place to sleep or…”

“I’m staying with a friend for now,” Riccardo shrugs. “Then I’ll find something.”

He gathers his scarf, which up close is really just a piece of rather old and dirty linen, and wraps it around his neck in a way so elaborate that it almost looks like it’s made of some expensive fabric. “When do you need me again?”

“Day after tomorrow, if you can? I need to acquire some materials before I get to painting.”

Riccardo nods. “I’ll be here.”

Giampaolo watches him walk out in the street. Then he returns to his canvas and grabs the charcoal again. 

 

~ ~ ~

 

Giampaolo enters the market at the opposite end than most people do, as the bridge leading from his quarter ends right there. The offer of food is considerably poorer than he remembers, which means also that the market is less crowded. Luckily, he is not looking for food. Although he should buy some, because his pantry is mostly empty, save for breadcrumbs and some rotten onions.

When he finally finds Nocerino, he is half frozen. “Are you selling or hiding?” he asks him instead of a greeting.

“Cheaper place,” Nocerino shrugs. “Too little painters in this city, it seems.”

“I should rejoice, then,” Giampaolo sighs.

“So, what do you need?” Nocerino asks with a grin. “Some red for a cardinal’s robe?”

“You know well that the clergy is unlikely to order anything from me,” Giampaolo says. “I need blue. The problem is that I don’t know which one.”

Blue is the trickiest color he knows. It’s also the most expensive, but that’s nothing he needs to worry about. He will have the Duke pay extra for that. The problem is that while he would usually reach for lapis lazuli, as he can afford it, he isn’t quite sure that he can get the shade of Riccardo’s blue eyes right using it. Indigo is out of question as well. 

“Lapis lazuli is too dark, indigo will give me a purple tinge…” he mutters.

“Then I have a suggestion,” Nocerino says. “Prussian blue.”

Giampaolo almost slaps him. Suggesting he uses the cheapest blue there is, an accidental, unnatural color, on a painting meant for the Duke. But then he looks at the shade of the pigment, and he has to reconsider. Riccardo’s eyes are really a washed-out Prussian blue, he can’t think of anything else.

He ends up buying Prussian blue and also a little bit of massicot, ocher and umber pigments, as he’s not quite sure about the shade of Riccardo’s hair either. Nocerino looks contented. Giampaolo knows that he’s probably spent much more than he had to.

On his way home, he stops by at a cloth merchant’s shop, to acquire some white fabric for the angel’s robe. He doesn’t really need anything fancy, just something clean, which doesn’t apply to anything he has in his house. 

As the merchant is measuring and cutting the fabric, something else catches Giampaolo’s attention. He reaches for the roll of purple silk on the upper shelf. He’s never seen this color before.

“Oh, this…” the merchant says, noticing his interest. “I just got it.”

Giampaolo smells it. “It doesn’t smell fishy,” he mumbles.

The merchant laughs. “It’s not Tyrian purple,” he says. “That dye hasn’t been available for centuries. It’s indigo with kermes.”

Giampaolo nods, and then, before he even thinks about it, says: “Give me two _braccios_ of this.” 

 

~ ~ ~

 

Riccardo arrives at Giampaolo’s house the next day, with hair freshly washed, smelling of fresh bread as always. He sits in the armchair in the exact same position as during the first session. Giampaolo doesn’t even have to tell him what to do. He figures it’s the way Riccardo naturally sits.

“I’m surprised you don’t want to see the sketch,” Giampaolo says as he stands at the easel to compare his outline with the model. “People usually do.”

“I don’t,” Riccardo says calmly. “I don’t think I’ll want to see the final pairing either.”

Giampaolo raises his brows. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. Looking at my face when it’s not really my face… it would be strange.”

Giampaolo has never think of it, but he has to admit that he is kind of right. He would probably feel strange as well, if he saw himself as an angel or some saint. 

As little as he is uninterested in the final product, Riccardo proves to be quite curious about the process. He looks especially enticed by Giampaolo mixing his colors - whenever Giampaolo looks up, he catches Riccardo watching him, excited like a child. For the lack of better ideas, and to make it less awkward, Giampaolo starts teaching him the names of the colors. Riccardo repeats some with reverence, some with a little giggle. And after a long time, Giampaolo has the feeling that what he does is something special. It’s like he rediscovers painting once again, after all those years of painting what other people want, not what he truly feels.

He paints until the light doesn’t completely disappear, forcing him to finally put the painting to rest and light up candles. 

“I should give you something to eat,” Giampaolo says. “I kept you here for so long.”

“You don’t have to,” Riccardo says. “I’m staying with my friend in a bakery. There will likely be something to eat. Something burnt, or older…”

“I don’t have to,” Giampaolo smiles. “But I want to.”

He puts the bread he bought on the market yesterday, some cheese, olives and fermented sausages on the table. He adds a bowl of fruit that he usually paints and doesn’t eat. He even finds a bottle of wine that he probably forgot about. Riccardo watches him intently, apparently more interested in him than the food. “You don’t have a housekeeper or something like that?” he asks. “People like you usually don’t do this themselves.”

Giampaolo laughs. “Are you offering me your services?”

“Not really. If I can help it, I’m never scrubbing anyone’s floor again.”

“I hate when someone cleans my place,” Giampaolo explains. “Usually I can’t find anything afterwards. And if someone touches my brushes and paints, I could strangle them.”

Riccardo pouts. “And I was hoping I could try to mix your paint once.” He grabs a fig from the bowl of fruit, rips it in half and starts to bite out the interior of it. 

“Well, maybe I’ll let you,” Giampaolo smiles. “But I don’t promise that I will actually use that paint.”

“Have you always lived alone?” Riccardo asks. “I mean, before you came to Florence…”

Giampaolo puts down the glass. “Have you always scrubbed floors?”

Riccardo isn’t nearly as offended as Giampaolo hoped he would be. “No. I also swept the streets. I guess there’s no better work for someone who got kicked out of every apprenticeship.” 

“What did you try to learn?”

Riccardo smiles. “Goldsmith, as first. That didn’t work, with my clumsy fingers and all. I tried hair dresser as well, that was a terrible idea with terrible consequences…”

Giampaolo almost chokes on the wine.

“Well, I tried a couple more, got kicked out every time. Then I was too old to become an apprentice. So I ended up scrubbing floors,” Riccardo says. “What about you?”

“About me?”

“Have you always lived alone?”

“No,” Giampaolo says. “I used to be an apprentice as well, at one painter’s workshop, so I lived there with the other students.”

“That’s not what I meant, but at least it’s something,” Riccardo smiles.

“Other than that, I always lived alone,” Giampaolo says. “My… courting attempts… went about as well as your apprenticeships.”

Riccardo laughs. “I wonder why. You’re quite charming, when you try.”

Giampaolo opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know what to say to it. Instead, he finishes his wine. “I got something for you,” he says and gets up.  
  
Riccardo’s eyes light up. Giampaolo thinks that he must be terribly materialistic, which, considering the life he lives, is probably not easy.

“I thought you could finally throw away this dirty thing,” Giampaolo points to Riccardo’s scarf. “And wear something that would suit you better.” 

He hands Riccardo a packet wrapped in paper and tied with a string. Riccardo looks at him like he is not sure if it isn’t a joke, then he unties the string and rips at the paper impatiently. 

The purple silk pours out. Giampaolo had the edges cleaned by the helper at the cloth merchant’s shop. The stitching isn’t exceptionally good, but Riccardo doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers. “It’s… really for me?”

“Well, who else would I buy it for? Can you imagine me wearing it?” Giampaolo asks.

“No, not really,” Riccardo laughs. “Thank you. I’ve never… received a gift, I think. Or I don’t remember if I did.”

“I’ve never given one,” Giampaolo says.

“Well, that explains a lot about the success of your courting attempts,” Riccardo smiles and wraps the scarf around his neck. Then he caresses the material reverently. “I’ll have to get used to this.” 

 

~ ~ ~

 

The bakery is already closed and empty when Riccardo returns. Alberto frowns as he walks in. “What is that?” he asks, pointing at Riccardo’s neck.

“A scarf,” Riccardo says proudly. 

“It looks like a piece of the robes priests wear for funerals,” Alberto mutters. “Why on earth is it purple?”

“Because purple suits me?” Riccardo offers. “At least Giampaolo says so.”

“Who?”

“Pazzini.”

“Then he’s probably colorblind. Take that hideous thing off, you look like a fool.”

Riccardo laughs and takes the scarf off, folding it carefully. Alberto frowns. It looks like pure silk. It must have cost a lot of money. Why the painter would spend such amount on someone like Riccardo is beyond him.

“I suppose you didn’t find any normal work today,” Alberto says.

“Why would I do that? I’m busy until Easter.”

Alberto rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk about it like you’re the most important person in Florence,” he says. “Once he pays you and you spend the money, you’ll be scrubbing floors somewhere again.”

“Maybe,” Riccardo shrugs. “But I want to enjoy this while this lasts.”

Alberto rolls his eyes again. “There’s some bread left on the counter.”

“Thanks. I’ve already eaten.” 

“So he feeds you as well?” Alberto folds his arms. “Seems like I was right about painters being perverts.”

“So if someone feeds you and gives you a gift, they are perverts?” Riccardo raises his brows. “How I wish the world was full of perverts, then.”

“You are truly lost,” Alberto sighs. “No hope for salvation.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Riccardo appears at Giampaolo’s house the very next day, late in the afternoon, wearing the purple scarf.

“We weren’t supposed to meet today,” Giampaolo says. “The paint isn’t dry enough.”

“I figured that,” Riccardo smiles. “But you promised you’d let me try mixing paint. And during the sessions, there isn’t time for it.”

Giampaolo folds his arms. “I promised you that before you told me how terrible you were as apprentice.”

“Hey!” Riccardo frowns. “I knew you painted the Pope as Beelzebub and let you paint me anyway!” 

Giampaolo rolls his eyes and steps out of Riccardo’s way. “Don’t expect me to let you handle anything expensive,” he says. 

He ends up giving Riccardo a bunch of charred grape vines, as he thinks they are the easiest thing to work with, and linseed oil. To his surprise, Riccardo isn’t even half bad at it. He’s patient and meticulous and handles the tools quite skillfully. What comes out of his first attempt isn’t the best and smoothest paint Giampaolo has ever seen, but he’s also seen much worse. 

“You’re too good for scrubbing floors,” he says, trying it on a scrape piece of canvas.

“Well, most of the masters would have already kicked me out at this point, so I think I didn’t do so bad,” Riccardo grins. He sits on the floor close to the fireplace and looks up at Giampaolo. “Perhaps even you weren’t so bad at courting.” 

“What do you mean?” Giampaolo asks and sits next to him.

“Perhaps you simply courted the wrong people.”

Giampaolo looks at him. Riccardo touches his face with fingers still covered in the fine black powder, smearing it over his cheek, and then he leans closer and kisses him.

It all comes back, the memories of his youth, stolen kisses and hot nights in Venice, leaving his master’s workshop in a hurry and covered by the veil of the night. Lonely years in Rome.

Giampaolo closes his eyes and pulls back. “Stop.”

Riccardo just smiles. “Who do you fear? God?”

“You don’t?”

“No. At most, I fear people.” He reaches for the ties of his shirt. “But since you don’t employ anyone, and I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, the chances of someone happening upon us are very low.”

“Except God,” Giampaolo points out, but he finds himself pulling at his own shirt.

“Come on, God knows you are Beelzebub’s court painter,” Riccardo laughs. “He won’t bother with you.”

Giampaolo wants to strangle him, but instead, he grabs the discarded sheet that he uses to cover his paintings with and spreads it on the floor under them. He knows that he’s going to regret it later, but he’s never been one to resist temptation.

 

~ ~ ~

 

It takes nearly a week for the paint to dry sufficiently. The temporary warm weather replaced by cold and humidity doesn’t help.

When Riccardo arrives for the next session, he apparently isn’t in a good mood. Giampaolo kind of wants to ask him about it, but he tells himself that it’s not his problem, mainly because he doesn’t need any more problems in his life. And he’s already caused himself enough trouble. He needs to be done with this damn painting and leave the city before Venice repeats itself.

The session is an unusually quiet one. Giampaolo doesn’t really mind, as he has to focus on his work, considering that he is getting to the important layers and there is no more space for mistakes.

“Can I open the window?” Riccardo asks suddenly.

“Open the window?” Giampaolo laughs. “It’s freezing outside. It took me all night to warm up this room.”

Riccardo doesn’t say anything more. Giampaolo continues painting, focusing on the shades of the angel’s white robe, as it is what creates the illusion of movement.

The unmistakable noise of a body hitting the floor interrupts him mid-stroke.

Giampaolo jumps up. “Riccardo!” 

He almost overturns the easel as he rushes to him. When he manages to lift Riccardo’s upper body off the floor, the boy makes a small pained sound. His face is white as chalk and sweat is breaking on his brow. Giampaolo would slap himself for not seeing it right away.

He drags him across the room to the bed. Carrying the dead weight is more exhausting than he thought and he has to sit next to Riccardo to catch his breath. Then he lays his palm on Riccardo’s forehead. ”You're like a stove,” he states.

"You should throw me out," Riccardo whispers. "If it's..."

"Nonsense," Giampaolo snaps. "If it's plague, then throwing you out now would be useless anyways. You’re staying here.”

“Gila will be worried,” Riccardo breathes out.

“Who?”

“Gila. My friend.”

“I’ll write him a message,” Giampaolo says.

Riccardo smiles weakly. “Gila can’t read.”

_Of course._ “I’ll send a messenger, then. You rest.”

He runs down the stairs and crosses the street, entering the tavern where he knows he will find some of the boys willing to deliver his message, and buy some wine to boil, as it’s the only medicine he can think of. 

He sends a message that he hopes isn’t too alarming. Riccardo’s malaise could be nothing, so he doesn’t want to spread panic. And in case it is something graver, he wants Riccardo’s friend to be assured he’s being taken care of… at least to the best of Giampaolo’s ability.

When he comes back, the room is quiet. Riccardo seemingly hasn’t moved since Giampaolo left. He approaches him on tiptoes and touches his hand gently. The boy’s lashes flutter.

“I sent a message to your friend,” Giampaolo says softly. 

“Thank you.”

“I also brought some wine. I can boil it with some spices, it might help.”

Riccardo just shakes his head. “Tell me now,” he whispers. “About the Pope and Beelzebub.”

Giampaolo rolls his eyes. He hopes to God that Riccardo is not dying, but if he is and the last thing he wants to hear is this stupid story, then Giampaolo just doesn’t understand anything anymore. “I was painting the portrait of the Pope, and there was a table with a plate of fruit in the background. Fruit. Abundance. The rich men like that. There was a fly sitting on the plate, and it wouldn’t move for long minutes, and I thought it would make it all a bit more realistic. So I painted it. A fly. Quite a big and detailed one. The symbol of Beelzebub. Which I didn’t realize.”

Riccardo laughs weakly. “What happened when he found out?”

“I had to leave Rome, of course. But the legend follows me everywhere I go. People don’t even know the whole story. They probably imagine I painted horns on the Pope’s head.”

Another tremor goes through Riccardo’s body. His body is radiating heat. It looks like the winter chill that Giampaolo got once when he was in Rome. He also thought he was going to die, but eventually he got better in a few days.

“You should sleep,” he says. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I thought it would be more interesting,” Riccardo whispers. “The story.”

Giampaolo just laughs. “I told you.”

Riccardo falls asleep before he throws two more logs in the fireplace and sits back at the table. Giampaolo lays his head on his folded arms and closes his eyes as well.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Pazzini!”

The loud voice from the outside of his house wakes him up from his drowse. Giampaolo gets up and opens the window.

Riccardo’s friend definitely doesn’t look calm, nor grateful for Giampaolo taking care of Riccardo.

“What did you do to him, you perverted…” he yells, and the first windows are starting to open in the street. It’s fairly late for someone to be yelling like this.

Giampaolo is just about to tell this man to come up and see for himself that he didn’t murder Riccardo, but he doesn’t have time for that.

“Tell him to go away,” he hears Riccardo’s voice.

Giampaolo turns around. “He doesn’t look like…” He stops mid sentence.

Riccardo has taken off his shirt and he’s looking at Giampaolo with both horror and apology in his eyes.

“Pazzini!”

Giampaolo turns back to the window and takes a deep breath. “I didn’t do anything,” he says in a voice loud enough for the man to hear him, but as low as he can possibly keep it. “He’s got the plague.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Giampaolo closes the window and locks the door, just in case someone would want to come in. All his instincts are telling him to run, but his reason tells him that it’s too late anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Riccardo whispers.

Giampaolo shakes his head. “Perhaps what they say is right. It’s a punishment of God, for what we did.”

“It’s not,” Riccardo says and closes his eyes. “There is no God.”

Giampaolo just falls back in his chair, and sits there motionless long after Riccardo has fallen asleep.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Giampaolo feels the most powerless he’s ever felt. The charcoal, paper, canvas and paint are his only solace, and he sits by Riccardo’s side for hours, drawing his face over and over again.

He thinks that he should perhaps bring him to one of the hospitals they set up for the sick outside of the city, but he’s heard such things about them that he can’t bear the thought of letting Riccardo die there, alone. Besides, he could be dead before Giampaolo even finds a place for him. They say people can be healthy in the morning and buried by sunset, if there is someone willing to bury them.

But Riccardo doesn’t die. He holds onto life with the stubbornness of his own. The tumors open the next day. Giampaolo burns the bloody sheets as he doesn’t know what else to do, and changes them for clean ones, then he returns to his place. 

If Riccardo suffers, he suffers in silence.

Giampaolo paints and paints and paints. 

The wounds start to close. Color returns to Riccardo’s cheeks, the fever is gone. Giampaolo can’t help but think that he’s witnessing a miracle. A miracle Riccardo will probably not believe in, as he doesn’t believe in God.

By the end of the third week, Riccardo is close to healthy. He’s skin and bones, with cracked lips and dark shadows under his eyes, but the plague is gone.

Giampaolo finally deems it safe to unlock the door and go out to get some food. When he returns home with it, Riccardo devours it hungrily, not leaving a single crumb on his plate. 

He is _definitely_ getting better.

“I must thank you,” he says quietly and looks at Giampaolo. His eyes look even bigger now, shining out of the bony face. “I’d die somewhere on the street without you. Maybe not even of the plague. Someone would probably kill me. Or bury me alive.”

Giampaolo swallows hard. “How did you do this?” he whispers. “How did you…”

Riccardo smiles. “I didn’t believe I would die. I guess. Or I was simply lucky, once in my life. Maybe I finally deserved it.”

He gets up and walks across the room. His movements are slow and unnatural, almost like he’s already forgotten how to walk. He stops in front of the painting still on the easel, the one that was Giampaolo’s refuge during those long weeks. 

“This is me?” he asks quietly.

“You,” Giampaolo says. “Or Lazarus.”

Riccardo stays silent for a long time, looking at the painting. “You’ll leave Florence, won’t you?” he asks then. “When you finish the painting for the Duke.”

“Maybe,” Giampaolo says. “I don’t know what will be. I thought I knew what to do before, I thought I had my life figured out, what I want and don’t want, but… this has taught me a lesson. We can never figure life out.”

Riccardo nods and sits in the armchair that still stands in the same place as before. The warm light softens some of the dark shadows marring his face now. Giampaolo looks at him. “But if I do leave, then it will not be because of you.”

“No?”

“No. Because I’ll take you with me.”

Riccardo laughs. “I’ve never heard of a painter who would travel to another city and take his model with him.”

Giampaolo smiles. “Not his model. His… assistant, let’s say. I’m willing to call you that just because you’re too old to be my apprentice, though, so don’t think too highly of yourself.”

Riccardo stares at him with wide eyes. “Are you serious?”

“I figured I really could afford having someone prepare my canvas and mix my paint,” Giampaolo shrugs. “And I could find fifty better men in this city to do it for me, but I want you.”

Riccardo nods and then smiles wickedly. “How much will you pay me?” he asks.

Giampaolo folds his arms and gives him a scornful look. “Plague couldn’t kill you, but I can,” he says.

Riccardo laughs, gets up and kisses him. “Where are we going, then?”

“Milan,” Giampaolo says. 

“Ah, I understand. The clergy there hasn’t heard of your Beelzebub obsession yet.” 

“Or, there are maybe more rich merchants and lords willing to have their daughters’ portraits painted," Giampaolo offers.

“We’ll be rich, then,” Riccardo smiles. “I’m great with daughters. Almost as good as I am with painters.”

The urge to kill him intensifies, but at the same time, Giampaolo feels like laughing out loud. Fresh spring air is blowing inside through the open window and he feels like not Riccardo, but him has just nearly risen from the dead. And after facing death for so many days when he felt it lurking in every corner, he stumbles into wide undefined future of peace, and he feels like he’s at the beginning of his journey once again.

He’s determined to take the right turns this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Some historical facts (to justify myself):
> 
> \- Bubonic plague actually only has mortality rate of about 60% if left untreated. It's estimated that in 20% of cases, spontaneous recovery is possible, so it wouldn't even be such a miracle. Also, we're talking 17th century here, which was the last bigger pandemic of plague. By this time, the population of Europe has already gone through so many epidemics of plague that there was certain amount of immunity to it. Even today, there's quite a high chance that you are immune to plague if you are of European descent. (And as a fun fact, scientists actually believe that the Black Death in the 14th century _saved_ the population of Europe, as it was a selective killer and rid the population of the weak individuals, plus finally taught people to take some hygienic measures. People post-plague lived significantly longer than the population pre-plague.)
> 
> \- This type of plague also isn't spreadable from person to person, you get it from the flea bite. So being in one room with the person, given that the person doesn't develop an other form of the plague from the bubonic plague (which is totally possible), doesn't mean you're going to die. 
> 
> \- Prussian blue was indeed an "accidental" color that was created when the painter wanted to achieve red, but he was mixing his ingredients in a friend's laboratory, and the friend had dirty equipment, so the animal fat left in the glassware turned the color blue. It became a cheap alternative to lapis lazuli, which was very expensive as it came from only one place and was only available during a certain period of time.
> 
> \- Tyrian purple was a color associated with high status and religion. It's portrayed on some ancient paintings (and it cannot be correctly displayed on computer screens), but it stopped being used in about the 14th century because the dye ceased to be available. It was made of snails and crushed shells, and had thus a terrible fishy smell. It was replaced with other dyes, but purple was still a color common people would seldom wear, as it was very expensive.


End file.
